"Only too happy, of course," said I, mentally anathematizing him for an injudicious bore, thus to parade his flaming productions before—ahem! a writer for the press; but here is Rory's effusion; he gave me a copy.
"You must know," he premised, "that I had some misgivings about a certain elderly codger, whom I frequently discovered in tantalizing companionship with my beloved; hence my Valentine is a little suggestive."
More curious coincidences, said something within me, striking upon the ear of my heart rather alarmingly; but the great pacificator, conceit, soon quelled the emotion, and I was all absorbed in self love and delicious anticipations, when Rory cleared his throat, and read
AN ALLEGORY.
As Cupid one day, with his quiver well stored,
Fluttered round, upon wickedness bent,
Right and left, his insidious love-messengers poured,
And hearts by the hundred were shamefully scored,
To the mischievous archer's content.
'Till at last he encountered King Death on his way,